


Fresh Out Of Paperclips

by raelouise



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: A quick fuck in a stationary cupboard, Alternate Universe - Office, Best Song Ever!AU, F/M, Office Sex, Office Supplies, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raelouise/pseuds/raelouise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time Veronica hitches up onto Marcel’s desk and asks about the whereabouts of six millimeter staples, he doesn’t even remember the box left out beside his TARDIS coffee mug. He just grins up at her, bashful and dimpled and pleased, and stumbles to follow the come hither flutter of her mascara-heavy lashes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Out Of Paperclips

**Author's Note:**

> So. I wrote cheesy office smut based on the the characters Harry and Zayn portray in their as-of-yet unreleased music video. Like, that's what I'm doing with my life now.

The very first time office-eye-candy Veronica hitches herself up onto Marcel’s ever-so-organised desk, thumbs over the ballpoints in his pen pot and informs him that she’s _fresh out of paperclips_ and _could he show her where they’re kept in the stationary closet?_ Marcel’s go-to response is a nervous burst of nonsensical mumbling and a fumble with the handle of his top drawer. He’s terribly economical with his own supplies- has half of his monthly ration left- and would be more than happy to share with her, instead.  
  
“Um. Well. Yes. Well, you could take these?” He stutters, blinking owlishly behind his wide framed specs and rubbing two fingers beneath his starched shirt collar. His neck’s damp with a fresh mist of perspiration and Marcel wonders if someone’s accidentally knocked the temperature dial because suddenly he’s burning up under his sweater vest. Either that, or the way the soft shadow of Veronica’s cleavage peeks from the open neck of her blouse holds an untold amount of power.  
  
He’s always diligent about keeping himself from staring during office hours but it’s more difficult when she’s close enough for him to catch specific notes of her fruity-sour perfume. When she’s laughing out loud at him and arching further over his desk so that her dark curls, swept across one shoulder, tickle the top of his computer monitor-  
  
“Oh you are sweet, but I seem to go through paperclips at _such_ a rate. So, how about you keep those and point me in the direction of some of my very own?”  
   
Veronica has long, french tipped nails and she skitters out a beat with them on the edge of his deck as she stands; brushes them against the seat of her pencil skirt before she sets off with the air of someone expecting to be accompanied.  
  
The third time Veronica hitches up onto Marcel’s desk and asks about the whereabouts of six millimeter staples, he doesn’t even remember the box left out beside his TARDIS coffee mug. He just grins up at her, bashful and dimpled and pleased, and stumbles to follow the come hither flutter of her mascara-heavy lashes.  
  
“Not sure I could reach a top shelf, even in these, you see,” She says, gesturing to her killer shoes, and Marcel has to push his glasses back up over the bridge of his nose after his head’s dropped to admire the slender line of her ankle above the sharp stiletto heel.  
  
He flushes down to his chest at the thought of kissing there after he’s slid off her hold-ups because knows now, about the sheen of them and the bands of lace around her thighs, secrets beneath her sensible workwear. Cherishes the memory of the little bows at the back of each of them, just like the ones that sit on the elastic of her knickers and between the cups of her bra. She’d been in a red lingerie set the first time they’d done this, baby blue with white polka dots the next.  
  
He discovers, as soon as they’re tucked safely inside of the stationary closet and he’s able to pop her blouse buttons with his bumbling fingers, that she’s chosen seafoam green for their third tryst. Complete with soft ruffles that flutter over the golden brown swell of her breasts.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Marcel exhales, flicking at a frill as Veronica's fingers press at the nape of the his neck.  
  
She guides him into a kiss. A slick slotting together of their mouths that steals the rest of the breath, her tongue bold at the seam of his lips. He tastes of the slightly stale Kenco coffee he keeps in the staffroom, labelled with a neon post-it. Veronica of the cigarettes she sneaks out onto the balcony for- cutting a sophisticated silhouette against the steel grey backdrop of the city that she flicks her ash down into. They both taste of the wait that plagues them from eight forty five am, when they take the same lift up to their floor and weigh up whether they have enough time to do much more than exchange pleasantries.  
  
It’s lucky, Marcel decides, that even Veronica’s not brave enough to risk it. He’s positive he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his work day afterwards. Not with the way his cock stirs when rucks up her polyester skirt for him with a shimmy; how rough her purring is when he snaps the elastic of her hold-ups and dares to run his teeth over her waxy lipstick. He’s a little mathematical, each of his touches measured, but Veronica is patient.  
  
More than that, she enjoys the careful glide of his warm hands. How they cup at the weight of her boobs and squeeze gently, curiously, whilst he brushes kisses beneath her bejeweled earlobe. The feel of his clammy palms through the chiffon still clothing her waist; their teasingly slow journey to the heat building below her abdomen. His long fingers rubbing at her, seeking her clit through the wet silk of her knickers; his shaky breathing when he nudges the fabric aside and touches skin-to-skin. Dipping through her folds, learning about her all over again. What makes her pant.  
  
He gaze is enamored behind his taped together glasses, a glow in his eyes that says he couldn’t imagine anything more magical than getting to be with someone such as her. Even though they are surrounded by stacks of printer paper and plastic wallets, even if there are fly corpses in the strip light buzzing above them. It’s a thrill, the recklessness of it, especially when they strain to hear the distant murmur of inane office chatter- talk of averages, international conferences and the donut run  
  
Veronica’s eyes are already smokey with powder, alluringly low-lidded when she skims a hand over the pomade glossy parting in hair and asks, “Would you like to fuck me, Marcel?”  
  
“Oh. Well. Gosh. I mean.”  
  
“Is that a yes? We don’t have too long, love.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She has a foil Durex packet hidden in her bra and the excitement of that sticks like a stubborn cough in Marcel’s throat. Along with her hips rolling to remind him that he’s got his hand nestled inside of her underwear. Stilled as he watches her, slack jawed and rosy cheeked [and leaking in his underpants]. Veronica is danger, a sultry renegade. He is in charge of the orders that stock the cupboard they do their dirty things in. He’s not quite sure how this has happened, in fact he’s vaguely worried that he’s dozed off during an important business meeting.  
   
“Pants down then, babe.” She reminds him, smirking around her words, “You can do that for me, yeah?”  
  
He can, just about. _For her_. His fingers are clumsy at his belt buckle and the button fastening of his brown slacks, and gosh, if he doesn’t whimper when he brushes over his own crotch, but he gets them down to his ankles. His white y fronts, too. The tails of his shirt smears with precome from the tip of his dick and his lashes bead with hot sweat in his haste, blurring his vision so that Veronica is in soft-focus for him. The condom between her teeth, waves of black hair falling forwards over her breasts to the ripple of her ribs; her fingers sliding against the deep throb of her clit, through the fabric of her knickers because of those lethal nails of hers.  
  
She writhes against the floor-to-ceiling shelving, clamping her thighs around her own touch for a heart-stopping moment. Marcel pats through his sweater vest, to feel for his inhaler in his top pocket. _Just in case_.  
  
“You are- you are really rather gorgeous, Veronica. Q-quite,” He tells her, voice thick.  
  
Veronica knows- of course she knows, feels like a goddess even in the stationary closet- but she thanks him anyway. Fondly pokes an acrylic nail into the dimple she watches from across the room when he sucks at his pen and hums.  
  
“Shall I- I well I don’t, really...”  
  
“You shouldn’t be so shy, Marcel, you have a very tender touch. You know what you’re doing, yeah?” Veronica whispers in reassurance- condom packet between her fingers now, so that she can tear it open. Able to do so while still watching him, the pretty colour that bruises his cheeks and blooms over his jaw and throat, too. The hopeful upturn of his lips.  
  
They kiss again when she rolls the rubber over him. Marcel’s awkward fingers reaching to slide themselves in Veronica’s hair- too hesitant to pull it from her scalp as she’d really love him to, though he has learned that he’s allowed to be greedy. Can suck at her velvet tongue and swallow down each of the noises that drag up from her throat for him.They feed some barely-there confidence that begins to unfurl in his belly when she scrapes the pointed toe of her shoe against his calf. Grinding against him. Wanting him inside of her.  
  
Her, the girl that wore the vampy leather mini dress to the last Christmas party, and him [the boy that wore a patterned jumper and tinsel antlers].  
  
She asks that he take her from behind, with the sweet green scrap of her knickers tangled around her knees and her hands braced beneath a shelf of dusty ink cartridges. When he presses in close to her, his surprisingly solid chest against her graceful back and his hot breaths dancing over her what shows of her shoulder, her legs part eagerly and her bottom lifts as he marvels over how it fits just so in his hands. Keen to hear the breathy break of a whine, his thumbs trace the round of it- between her cheeks and up to the subtly of her spine. To dimples he would lap sweat from.  
  
He’s never heard such frustration from a lady as when he reaches between her legs with his hand again, rather than his prick, needing to explore the way she drips with honey in anticipation of him. She growls his name and reaches back to slap his hip, raking her nails against him to pull him an inch closer-  
  
“ _Come on_! They’re going to think we’ve gotten lost!”  
  
At her command, he sinks inside of her- with his left hand laid tenderly across hers and his right bunched in her blouse, mumbling apologies for the wait into her hair as he tries to keep his hips from stuttering. Keep himself from coming too soon, simply from the way her delicious heat welcomes him. The overwhelming scent of her citrus perfume and their sex cloying in the air. It’ll betray them their secret- minutes after they leave someone will come looking for something terribly mundane and know, that Veronica chose Marcel.  
  
She thrums like a current around him- her heartbeat in her pussy.The quickening pulse of it gloriously tight around his dick. A rhythm for him to thrust to because of course she’s in control, even as the shelf cuts a ridge into her forehead and she moans girlishly for his cock. She gets a grip on his hip again, encouraging him to fuck her harder, demanding deeper thrusts and punctuating each one with a _yes_ , a _yes yes yes_. He isn’t capable of words- can only open his mouth against her neck and pant hard. Can’t even kiss her there as his lungs heave and his knuckles pale.  
   
“Marcel, love? Do you remember what I showed you last time?” Veronica asks, sounding dizzy and hopeful and craning her neck to see some snatch of his askew glasses and collapsing hair.  
  
He does. Knows to skate his hand beneath the front of his skirt, to creep from her thigh to her crotch, ready to run his fingers down to her swollen clit. Begins with light little circles, getting more hectic with it as it works and she grinds  against the touch. Grinds and grunts and bucks back onto his cock until she comes in spasms around him, all of her weight tipping into the shelves with the force of it. She scratches stinging red lines over the print of her hand at his side as it takes her and muffles the loudest of her moans with his wrist.  
  
His orgasm follows when she nips him through the cuff of his sensible white shirt and he’s not sure what jumbled words he slurs between her shoulder blades, is only blearily aware of his eyes rolling with them; his bones threatening to buckle on him as the last of her climax throbs around his in lazy waves.  
  
“That was so good, honey,” Veronica smiles, always softer afterwards, with her lovely shiny eyes, “Thanks, yeah?”  
  
She kisses his cheek as he gets to fixing his pants, the condom dutifullly disposed of in the waste paper basket, a few balled up sheets of paper atop it for decency’s sake. He’s even clumsier than he was when he was getting them off- panicking about appearing ruffled, about the filthy fluid stain on his shirt hem. He feels all wobbly, as though he’s run a marathon, and yet somehow, even with her damp hairline and faintly smudged mascara, Veronica looks as put together as a beauty queen as she glides towards the door-  
  
“Thanks for the staples, doll!” She practically shouts and Marcel fails spectacularly with the re-threading his belt when she winks conspiratorially, too; has to take out his trusty inhaler when, somehow, the seductive sway of her behind in her creased skirt assures him that she’ll be back at his ever-so-organised desk soon enough.  
  



End file.
